


Henchman

by RunMild



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, POV Second Person, coffee dates, technically a gender-neutral reader, you know just your average weekday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 13:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: Sometimes you’re the hero. Sometimes you’re the victim. And sometimes… sometimes you’re just the overpaid lackey.You knew this job was too good to be true. Science creditsandcompetitive pay? You should have just taken out a loan.





	Henchman

**Author's Note:**

> Some events based loosely on Gotham City Sirens, but *vague hand-wave* it's not too chummy with canon.

Living in Gotham is a bit like living in the eye of an infinite hurricane. Sure, it’s calm for _now,_ but you can see the wall of the storm on all sides, and you’re left to wonder if you have enough time to make it to the 7-Eleven and back before the next wave hits. Except instead of rain and wind, it’s going to be clowns or cultists or whatever the villain flavor of the week happens to be.

This week, it’s… _eldritch creatures?_

“Oh, for the _love of—”_ You dodge a whip-like tentacle and stumble into the brick siding of the convenience store. There’s nothing particularly convenient about it when its barred windows shatter and shower you in a fine hail of glass. You cover your head, eyes shut, and wish you’d just eaten what was in your fridge.

Somewhere nearby, sirens wail.

Today, it seems, you’ve been caught out in the storm. And unlucky you, you forgot to bring your umbrella and Lovecraft survival guide.

Another dark, writhing shape launches itself at you, suckers flaring, and you lunge into an alley at a run. You’ve seen this anime. Doesn’t end well for hapless schoolgirls.

Ordinarily, dark alleys are a huge no-go in Gotham city, but “ordinary” doesn’t really cover this situation. Besides, if there’s a gun-toting thug behind a dumpster, you hope the many-limbed creature— _creatures?_ —go for them first.

Something flies over your head, close enough that you can feel the downdraft. You duck belatedly, knees hitting the pavement. There’s a sound like someone hitting a wet sack with a bat, then a crackle, a shriek, and a smell of charred meat. And over it all, the pervasive scent of garbage.

Eau-de-Gotham.

You turn to see the broad back of one of the city’s many costumed crusaders, and if you had the breath to spare, you’d sigh in relief. Nightwing wails on one thick tentacle, batons lit up and buzzing.

“Keep going!” he shouts back at you, hurtling into the heart of the mess. From the mouth of the alley, you see someone in red joining the fray.

Calvary present, you waste no time in booking it the rest of the way down the alley, resolving to take the long way back to your apartment.

Back home, the news blathers on about a science experiment gone wrong or some shit—what else is new—and switches to an aerial view of shadowed figures just going to town on equally dark, inhuman shapes. You can see your local junk food stop to their right, its windows shattered. You bet if you open your own window, you’ll be able to hear some of the commotion.

Your microwave shrills, and you flick off the television with a long-suffering sigh.

Just another Tuesday in Gotham.

 

 

Wednesday brings with it a fair number of _actual_ storms, and a date with your sort-of boyfriend.

“You look rough,” he says, taking in your rain-ravaged form.

“Dick,” you say as both address and acknowledgment of his entirely uncalled-for observation.

He grins. “I bought you a coffee.”

“You’re on thin ice, buddy.” You take the proffered cup anyway.

Dick is sitting by the window of the coffee shop, legs stretched out under the small table. You sit across from him and try to figure out how to arrange your own limbs without disturbing him. He takes a sip of his drink, clearly amused, before trapping your legs between both of his own and settling back with a smug look. You consider struggling for a moment, but you can feel his muscles flexing beneath the denim, and _hoo_ boy, that’s not a battle you’d win. You lean back, adopting what you hope is an impassive look, but from the way Dick continues to radiate smug satisfaction, you think it’s a loss.

“ _So,”_ you say, hoping to guide this interaction back to neutral ground. “How’s work?”

“Work’s good.” He shrugs, and you try not to stare at the way his shirt tightens around his shoulders. “Routine stuff. Uneventful.” He never wants to talk about work. “How’s class?”

You groan. That question has hounded you for the past four years.

“I just signed up for my last semester. Can’t come soon enough, honestly.”

Dick nods. “You continuing with that internship in the spring?”

“Mhm.” You jiggle your cup, feeling the liquid slosh. “Dr. Irving wants to keep me on. Says I’m “good with the kids.””

“The “kids” being…”

“Her plants,” you say.

You both share a smirk.

Dick sobers. “Listen,” he says. “I was thinking—”

“Dangerous.”

“Seriously.” His legs tighten around yours. “What if you had another offer?”

“Paying what she does? In _this_ economy?” Your laugh is only half mocking. “Honestly, I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop there, but until then…” You raise your cup in a salute.

Dick leans forward. “What about double?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What if you were offered double what you’re making with the good doctor to… what? Water her plants and stay out of her way?”

Your mind blanks. “Uhh…”

Sounds shady as hell. You already feel like you’re getting away with highway robbery with what Dr. Irving is paying you. Or, at least, what her research lab is paying you. And also, _rude,_ you do more than water plants and make yourself scarce.

You also make ungodly amounts of herbal tea.

“I… like all of my organs?” you finally say.

“I said a _job,_ babe, not a back-alley procedure.”

“Actually, you said “offer,” which sounds infinitely more ominous.”

His eye-roll is more of a full-head-roll, and when his neck stretches, you catch sight of a discolored spot on the skin beneath his jaw.

“Is that a… hickey?” you say slowly. It doesn’t really look like a hickey. It actually looks like he was shot in the neck with a giant suction cup dart.

He claps a hand over the spot. “Um. N-yeah.”

“Nyeah?” You narrow your eyes.

This isn’t even about the possibility of Dick necking another person—a person with a lamprey mouth, apparently—as you’re not exactly clear on the parameters of your relationship. Such as it is. It’s just that the spot on his neck is niggling at something in your brain. His reaction is equally suspicious, although he locks it up pretty fast.

“Sorry, I—” He looks pained. “Stuff… happened last night. It was… electric.” The flat tone of his voice belies his words.

You open your mouth. Close it.

Is this where you ask for clarification about the two of you? Broach the topic of exclusivity?

…Why does this feel like one of those situations where a guy claims to have been watching porn when he’s really been watching something weirdly hard to explain, like Teletubby conspiracy theories?

“Dick, what’s really goi—” you start, but a low-tone buzz interrupts you, and Dick already has his discrete work phone in hand, eyes flicking over the screen.

He mutters something under his breath. “Look, I have to—” He looks at you, grimacing. “I am so, so sorry. I don’t mean to ditch you after—” He waves a hand to encompass the tense air between you.

You frown, confused and frustrated. You definitely feel like you’re missing something.

Dick slides his chair back, his legs detangling themselves from yours in one deft movement.

“Can I call you later?” he asks. The expression on his face speaks volumes for what answer he expects.

You surprise him by nodding. You’re still staring at the angry mark.

He lets out a short breath through his nose. “I—okay. Good.” He bends over you for a second, hesitating, before pecking you on the head. “Stay dry.”

And then he’s gone.

You’re left with half a cup of cooling coffee and a head full of questions.

 

 

Dr. Paula Irving is a little prickly, but also mostly absent, so she’s pretty much the best boss ever. When you were flipping through internship applications, S.T.A.R. Lab’s jumped out because— _hello,_ “paid.” Right there in print. You weren’t sure what pittance could be expected for a botanist’s undergrad assistant, so when you interviewed—first with the lab, and then with the scientist herself—and she told you the sum, your jaw nearly hit the floor.

“It’s an incentive,” she said, eyes looking through you. “Treat them well.”

You didn’t care at that point whether her plants required only the blood of virgins— _you were getting this internship,_ dammit.

Thankfully, the lab’s greenhouse inhabitants need only the usual upkeep: sunlight, water, and occasional pruning. You spend the first week learning the ins and outs of plant care under your employer’s watchful eye, and after that, you are left to your duties in silence. It’s calm, methodical work, and the green space is always nap-weather warm. It’s nice.

Sometimes, when you’ve finished tending the plants, you’re to help Dr. Irving with… whatever it is that she’s doing. It mostly involves you wearing protective gear in the little white tent she’s erected and keeping the temperature steady on the vials of plant extracts that she’s examining. Occasionally, she even trusts you with a small knife, and you dice what looks like diseased plant pieces and put them on microscope slides. She never bothers to explain what she’s working towards, and you’re not getting paid to ask questions.

It’s kind of a soap-bubble existence.

That being said, you don’t expect it to pop as it does.

“Hey, Doc, sorry I’m late. There was a guy with sonic weapons on my normal route, and my taxi had to—” You stutter to a halt, taking in the scene.

Normally, your employer is dressed to kill—business skirts, heels, the whole nine yards—but today she seems to be taking the saying a little more seriously.

“I’ll just...” You make a grab for the door handle, looking to make a speedy exit.

A vine darts out to cinch your arms to your waist. You suck in a shallow breath and wonder what it is about you and tentacle-like things lately. At least the vine doesn’t have suckers on it.

_Wait—_

“Now this _is_ unfortunate,” Poison Ivy née Paula Irving says, shattering your thoughts. She glides closer, plants blooming in her wake. You feel like you’re looking at some carnal painting of Eve, all leaves and bare skin. “I had hoped to _avoid_ complications like this. Keep my work and home life separate, if you will.”

You knew this job was too good to be true. Science credits _and_ competitive pay? You should have just taken out a loan.

“Look, I won’t tell anyone—” you say, the words tumbling out before you can catch them. You really don’t want to find out what it feels like to have vines grow up your sinus cavities and into your brain.

“Of course not, sweet thing.” The woman has a smile as poisonous as her name. She strokes a hand down your face. “We’re going to make sure of it.”

The puff of pollen isn’t what you’re expecting. You sneeze, once.

Then things get a little… hazy.

“Now we have a lot to do today, and I’m going to need you to be a _very_ good helper.”

You find yourself nodding. You can be a good helper. You can be a _great_ helper.

Something soft pats your cheek. “That’s what I like to hear.”

 

 

There’s something wrong.

Dr. Irv— _Pam_ —seems unfazed, and she would know—she knows _everything_ —but there’s still… something. You pause in your fiddling with a line of heating concoctions, head spinning. It’s like a ringing in your ears. Like a ringing in your _whole_ _head._

“Don’t let that extract burn,” Pam says sharply, and the moment is lost.

You adjust the temperature, happy to be of help.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been here, but it’s not important. Pam says you’re close— _so close_ —to completion, and it would be a shame to stop now.

You agree. Why leave when you could be here, helping?

Some distant message in your brain pings, but you send it straight to voicemail. You have the brief thought that maybe you should sit down, but there are no chairs here, and you can’t just _leave._ Pam says you should stay in this room, and that seems reasonable. There’s too much to do.

Something pings again, and this time it’s not in your head.

“Be a dear and turn off your phone, would you? It’s bad lab manners,” Pam says. She doesn’t look up from her slides.

You float over to your shoulder bag, feeling mortified. You didn’t turn off your phone! Pam must think you’re so rude. Maybe you should throw your phone in the garbage.

Yeah, that seems like the best course of action.

You reach for the power button, but the screen lights up again, another message coming in. You blink. There are… a lot of missed messages. That seems important, somehow.

“Something wrong?” Pam asks, suddenly beside you.

You start, and the screen goes black. You stare at the dark shape for a handful of seconds, unseeing, before giving a shrug and tossing it into the waste bin.

“It’s not important,” you say, smiling up at the woman.

“Hm.” She peers into your eyes for a moment, and you smell something cloying, like roses and overripe fruit, before she turns away. You waver in place, the ground bucking beneath you.

_It’s not importa—_

_You’re happy to hel—_

You pitch forward, losing the battle with your own equilibrium.

Something warm catches you around your waist.

“Easy there,” a vaguely familiar voice says in your ear.

The room around you shifts again. You feel like you should tell someone that you’re feeling a little under the weather, but your tongue grew wings and flew away, and you’re not sure about the state of your vocal cords. There’s suddenly a lot more green in your field of vision, and that seems cheerful.

“I can’t say I’m glad to see you, little bird.”

Oh, but Pam doesn’t seem to be cheerful at all. Your fingers twitch in sympathy. You can’t seem to manage much more than that.

“”Little” from whose perspective, _Doctor Irving?”_

No one seems very happy, actually. Such a shame, because other than your general inability to do anything, you feel _great._

“I’m surprised it took you so long, honestly,” Pam says. “I thought one of your kind would come flying in here half-cocked _weeks_ ago.”

There’s some maneuvering, and you’re lifted so that Pam is no longer in your line of sight—you’d frown if you still had lips, but you think they hitched a ride with your tongue—and you are instead looking up at a man in a mask.

Or, more specifically, you’re looking up at a masked man’s jaw and mouth.

“’ _ey,”_ you slur.

Blue eyes blink down at you, momentarily distracted. “What did you _do?”_

You’re not sure what he means. You’ve only been helping; he doesn’t have to sound so harsh—

“Just a little plant coercion,” Pam says airily. “Nothing _permanent,_ if you’re so concerned.”

Oh. No one’s angry at you. That’s good.

The lips continue to frown. The shape of them is familiar, and you feel like you’ve thought about them before. At length.

“ _Dick,_ ” you say muzzily.

The look now aimed at you is one of alarm.

“ _Are you_ kidding _me?”_ your sort-of boyfriend hisses through his teeth.

You wonder why he’s wearing the mask. You like his face. It’s a good face.

Some of that thought must find its way out of your mouth, because there's a shushing noise— _rude_ —and suddenly you’re in motion.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this, Ivy,” Dick throws over his shoulder.

There’s a feminine scoff behind him. “You think you can just come and go as you please, don’t you? _Men._ ”

Your free ride gets a lot rougher when vines start snapping toward Dick’s feet. He dashes out of the lab, dodging encroaching flora, and you resolve to close your eyes and hope for the best. You’re sad that Pam’s upset, but Dick is here now, and you _really_ like Dick.

“I r’ly li’e you,” you say, because it’s important that he knows.

“Your timing,” Dick pants, tucking you in closer, “leaves something to be desired.”

“ _Mm.”_ You’d say more—something about his mouth, maybe—but something is tugging you down, down, down into darkness, and you see no reason to resist.

Dick will keep you safe.

 

 

“—orked for Poison Ivy for _months_ without suspecting her, and I show up and get pegged in minutes. Even after the drugs!”

You’re not sure what death feels like, but you think you might be experiencing it.

“ _Eugh,”_ you can’t help but groan when you go to scrape your eyelids open. Too bright.

There’s the sound of footsteps and a hand on your forehead.

“Hey, take it easy, you’ve been out for a while.”

“Dick?” you ask, eyes still firmly winched shut. Your mind’s all jumbled, and your sinuses feel like they’ve been hit with spring allergies.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“…Yeah. About that.”

You crack an eye open.

“Oh,” you say, mouth dry for a whole host of reasons. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Nightwing says with a wry grin. “We have a lot to talk about.”

 

 

The coffee shop is sunny today, and you have a disposition to match.

“Well _some_ one looks chipper,” Dick says when you come strolling in, grin wide enough to split your face. “The interview went well, I assume?”

You bend and smack a kiss against his cheek, but when you go to take your seat, he snags an arm around you and reels you back in for a proper greeting.

“Mm,” you breathe against his mouth. “So good.”

“I know I am.” He winks and lets you go.

You roll your eyes. “I meant the interview, you doof. I swear, if your ego gets any bigger, we’ll have to roll it behind you in a wheelbarrow.”

His ankles stretch out to link around one of your own. His smile is entirely unapologetic.

“So, you got the job?”

“Dick, your dad runs the company. Of _course_ I got the job.”

“Nah, he didn’t have to pull any strings for this. You did it all on your own.”

You have to look down to avoid the warm look in his eyes. You might be blushing.

“Wanna celebrate tonight? My treat.” He waggles his eyebrows invitingly, as if you need coercing to accept the offer.

“Sure you don’t have any other dates tonight? Any eldtritch creatures you wanna get real personal with?”

Dick groans. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“I could be convinced to drop that _particular_ instance. That I was so _callously_ and _impersonally_ seduced to out a super villain?” You give a haughty sniff and flip your hand in a so-so gesture. “Jury’s still out.”

Dick grabs your wavering hand and rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “I’m sorry it’s such an imposition for you.”

“Every day I suffer.”

He laughs, then. “Free up your schedule tonight,” he says, leaning in. “I’ll make it up to you.

The way his voice drops at the last has you shivering.

 “I’ll… make some adjustments,” you say.

Gotham may be a hurricane, but you’re feeling weatherproof today.

**Author's Note:**

> Dick totally got close with MC at first to try to figure out if Dr. Irving was, in fact, Poison Ivy. But then you were cute. And clueless. Selectively clueless, apparently. MC's like "I know that mouth. I've spent a lot of time fantasizing about that mouth." Never underestimate the observational powers of a person with a crush.
> 
> Also, I'm a DC fandom baby. Marvel is my home, I'm just... testing the waters.


End file.
